


Immolation

by Sin_of_the_Fallen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Screw Destiny, The One Ring - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sin_of_the_Fallen/pseuds/Sin_of_the_Fallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immolate:<br/>1. To sacrifice.<br/>2. To kill as a sacrificial victim, as by fire; offer in sacrifice.<br/>3. To destroy by fire<br/>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/>Aulë's actions before Sauron's rise and fall finally begins creating ripples in what was certain.</p><p>The One Ring isn't the only thing that can whisper too softly to hear, or act through its bearer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ignite

 

Bilbo Baggins stared intently at the jewel that radiated glorious prismatic light he held in his chilled palms, thumb slowly caressing its surface. He knew he should have given it to Thorin immediately, the dwarrow was looking for it so intensely after all; but Bilbo also knew why he had not done so.

 

Smaug’s deep, imperious voice thundering so sibilantly of madness snaked its way into his mind, sowing doubt like dragon’s teeth into soil, but the Wyrm’s warning was not the true reason. It was so much easier to put the blame for the doubts slowly growing inside at Smaug’s cold claws than to face the true source of Bilbo’s deep unease; the Arkenstone itself.

 

~~(“Such _perception_ is rare.”)~~

 

He was quite sure the Company would find it blasphemous, if he could actually speak of his feeling about the jewel, but he was unable to pinpoint what about the Arkenstone was so utterly **_wrong._** As he stroked the jewel again, Bilbo thought silently, “ _Perhaps it is because it does not feel like any gemstone I’ve ever known?”_

 

Despite the fact his race did not hold gold and gems to the same value as the other Free Peoples, Bilbo knew Hobbits could appreciate the beauty of the shiny colored rocks. His mother had owned some jewelry modestly adorned with a few jewels, and so had some of the other Hobbits of the Shire, so Bilbo had seen and touched several types of gemstones, including the type of gems closer to polished stone than jewels. He may not be a dwarf, but Bilbo wasn’t completely ignorant.

 

For all that the Company hailed the Arkenstone as the King’s Jewel, it felt nothing like any gemstone or jewel Bilbo had ever seen. It did not have the correct texture to be a jewel. It was far too uneven, not smooth or polished, and not even close to how an uncut jewel should feel. The Arkenstone felt closer to untreated stone, or a stone so intricately carved that its details could not be discerned by a mortal’s unaided eye.

 

Most damning of all its little imperfections, besides that the very sight of it had some dark corner of his mind shrink away in horror, was that the Arkenstone was warm; unnaturally so. It wasn’t warm from heat absorbed from his flesh, or any ambient warmth in the air. And yet it was warm enough to warm his hands in the cold high air even after he had not touched it in hours, where it had lain in his cold bedding.

 

So yes, as he sat alone on the ramparts, next to huge chains maddeningly shaped like the Valar-forsaken jewel, Bilbo knew that whatever the Arkenstone truly was, he could not in good conscious give it to Thorin. But he had to get back before he was missed, if he even would be with the dwarves all in the treasure hoard, in order to hide away the Arkenstone again. Bilbo accidently slipped it into the pocket that held his magic ring as he planned how he would explain his absence if asked-

 

~~(“Mairon? Ah, I see you for what you are, **you servile bootlicker of MorgothMelkor**.”) ~~

 

Bilbo’s thought process ground to a halt as a wave of furious hatred nearly bowled him over, and he no longer thought about going back to the Company, not with the _abomination_ he had in his pocket.

 

He knew, he _knew_ , the Arkenstone was a monstrosity only good for inspiring madness, so what was he doing by taking it back to his Company?! A Wyrm almost gave a part of his Hoard to him precisely for that reason, to plant madness in his dwarves! Bilbo took a deep, shuddering breath in preparation, his rage making it hard to breathe through the vitriol, but determination came and settled in firmly.

 

He would protect his dwarves( _ ~~lineofDurin~~._ )

 

Bilbo divined what action he needed to take, resolute in his desire to rid himself and every one of the unnatural rock, and stood up from his seat with an explosive burst of energy. He marched to the edge of the ramparts and reared his arm back to throw the jewel to the walkway below with all his might. But Bilbo hesitated as the rage and determination retreated a little, his earlier unease returning.

 

Wasn’t the Arkenstone sacred to Thorin and his people? What would their reaction be-

 

 ~~(“ **No.**~~ **_I_ ** ~~**win**.”)~~

And Bilbo sent the Arkenstone hurling to the ground with all his might.

 

Slowly, he blinked dumbly, as if coming out of a haze. He didn’t understand, how did he end up-? Bilbo sucked in a horrified gasp as the shining light of the _falling Arkenstone_ caught his eye. He couldn’t look away from the falling jewel, and as the jewel approached the ground, Bilbo felt as though he had fallen with the Arkenstone.

 

What had he done?

 

When the jewel hit the walkway below, no sound was made, and the Arkenstone did not bounce or skitter away from where it landed. It appeared to have survived whatever he had done to it perfectly-

 

A thunderous **CRACK** filled the air utterly, in a way he could only compare to the battle of the Storm Giants, but the sound dwarfed the Storm Giants' clash. He wouldn’t be surprised if the dwarves in the treasure room and the Men of Laketown could hear the Arkenstone breaking with equal ease.

 

More **CRACK** s filled the air, each a little louder than the last, forcing Bilbo to cover his ears as he watched the Arkenstone brighten more with each **CRACK**. With one last titanic **_CRACK_** , Bilbo was blinded by the light the Arkenstone was giving off. It was like the Sun was emerging from the jewel, and he hastily squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could.

 

Slowly, the light died away, and no more **CRACK** s came, nor another **_CRACK_**. Bilbo carefully released his ears, and when the silence remained unbroken, he opened his eyes as slowly as he could.

 

He rather wished he hadn’t.

* * *

 


	2. Combust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard leads the way, even when boxed in by devious Elvenkings and unfavorable circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I favor the movie's method of killing Smaug. It makes more sense it takes something like a dwarven forged steel spear to pierce Smaug's hide than a piddling human arrow.

 

Bard the Bowman liked to believe himself to be a simple man, in spite the fact he was now being called Dragonslayer more often than his birth name. However, like it or not, with the Master gone now (hopefully dead, he thought spitefully) he had to take care of his people. He certainly couldn’t let Alfrid take command. They’d all be dead before spring, with Alfrid at the helm. Of course, that was if he could keep the cur from being hanged before the week was out. With the way the man ran his mouth, his prospects on that front looked dim.

 

But even if the Master were here, Bard knew he would still be doing the same thing. Looking after his people, keeping them moving and focused on tasks they could accomplish instead of their homes and loved ones burning in the night. They were in the last days of autumn, with no shelter or stores to see them through the winter. There was no supplies to treat the wounded with, and the uninjured were beginning to sicken from the cold and the wet. They needed to act, and quickly.

 

Bard steeled his spine as his fears and worries brought the Wyrm’s voice to his mind, forcing away the shakes and tears. The idea of having to watch Smaug eat his children in front of them, the screams, the smell of cooked meat- He couldn’t face it yet, the memory of his son’s tears streaming down his face, the dragon’s chest glowing as it opened its mouth- Bard shut the memories away.

 

He needed to be strong for his people, and his family. He could start to deal with this when they were safe and secure. Bard barked at a man, a hunter and trapper he recognized, who seemed too shocked to look away from his spot by a burning piece of wood.

 

“Get up! Make yourself useful and either hunt for game or collect some firewood to keep the fires burning!”

 

The hunter startled at the sound of his voice, but when he began to shuffle off and pick up broken bits of wood Bard counted it as a minor victory. He had to face facts though. The only way he could see his people surviving the winter was if they took shelter within the Mountain.

 

If the Company of Thorin Oakenshielf still lived, he would have to plead for the dwarves to take pity on his people, on top of ensuring that Thorin Oakenshield honored his promise to his people. If the dwarves had not survived their attempt to reclaim Erebor, he would have his people move into the mountain, and _not_ touch a single coin or jewel of Smaug’s Hoard until the proper owners of the mountain came. He would need the goodwill of Erebor’s rulers if he ever wished to see Laketown, or Dale even, rebuilt.

 

With this in mind, Bard began issuing orders for Laketown’s survivors to start marching to Dale. Hopefully the ruined city would be enough shelter while he either bargained with the dwarves or scouted the Mountain.

 

Now he would have to think of some sort of reason to convince the dwarves to allow them into their Halls if Oakenshielf proved reluctant…

 

As they made their way into the ruins of Dale, Bard received his answer as to whether or not the Company had lived. With the fires lit, he knew Erebor was reclaimed, and the dwarves yet lived. While he was somewhat pleased to know the dwarves had survived, it made his situation more difficult. Hopefully what he had come up with – trade alliances, renewal of old ties, promises of old renewed and kept – would sway Oakenshield if it came to it.

 

Bard’s hopes burned bright, for Oakenshield had seemed like a reasonable and honorable dwarf, if a stubborn one. And as the Elves of Mirkwood and Thranduil marched into Dale, Bard felt his hopes gutter out, leaving only cooling ashes. Thranduil had brought much needed supplies –food, blankets, clothing, medicines– but the Elvenking had not brought relief only. He had come with an army of elves at his back, battalions of archers and swordsmen in gleaming armor, looking more than ready to wage war. And Bard had a sinking feeling as to who Thranduil planned to point his army at, and why he had displayed such generosity to his people.

 

The Men of Laketown depended on their trade with the Mirkwood Elves. Bard knew that. It would make sense with that in mind for Thranduil to give them enough aid to get back on their feet, well in debt to him and with no recourse than to readjust the trade agreements to favor Thranduil greatly. It would be tough on them, but they would survive, and eventually the contracts could be renegotiated once their debt was paid. The Elvenking’s actions made sense, but Bard feared Thranduil’s motives were not so benign.

 

The Elvenking would know Bard and the Men of Laketown had no choice but to gratefully take whatever he gave. It would be only too easy for the elf to decide that if Bard objected to anything, say, laying siege to Erebor, then not only would their trade agreements vanish, but so too would any further aid. They had no choice but to accede to Thranduil’s desires, even if he feared the elf’s every action was to use human lives like shields for elven ones.

 

Bard forced himself to look away from the elf, knowing he had a ferocious expression on his face. Thranduil would not take his perceived insolence well.

 

He opened his mouth to speak with Thranduil about his plans when the air trembled with a **CRACK**.

 

“What is that?!” Bard shouted, ears ringing from the immensity of the noise. Thranduil was already dismounting from his panicking steed, clearly wanting to get to the ground so he could cover his sensitive ears instead of trying to keep his mount under control. Whatever the Elvenking was going to say was swallowed up by another **CRACK** a little louder than the last, and light began shining from the Lonely Mountain’s gate. Bard covered his ears like all of the elves were doing, as the **CRACK** s kept coming louder and louder. The light was growing brighter with each successive **CRACK** and soon Bard was forced to squeeze his eyes shut for fear the light might harm his eyes.

 

Then came the **_CRACK_** so loud Bard fancied the earth shook beneath the sheer magnitude of the sound, and the light grew to where it felt like he was staring at the sun even with his eyes shut as tightly as he could. After that, all was perfectly silent, and the light died away.

 

Bard cautiously removed his hands from his ears and began to open his eyes, only to find Thranduil’s face bleached white in horror. As he turned to look at the Lonely Mountain like the Elvenking was doing, Bard felt his heart come to a stuttering halt.

* * *

 


	3. Smouldering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I reveal what came from Bilbo's actions. Bilbo, of course, tries to deal with a terrible situation as best as a Hobbit can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BoFA is a ways off. Everyone's way too thrown to really start rattling their sabers yet.  
> Also, I do mention how everyone's more than a bit traumatized with some details. It's not explicit however.  
> **Smaug was calculated to be roughly 61 meters. It's pertinent information.

 

As he stared into an immense ruby eye, Bilbo couldn’t help but hysterically think, “ _So it wasn’t a jewel after all, but rather an egg!_ ” For lo and behold, there was now an absolutely massive black Dragon standing in front of Erebor’s gates, eyeing him with wide slit pupils like he was utterly fascinating.

 

Then it grinned, displaying pearly white fangs ( _my teeth are swords!_ ) and a low, rumbling, raspy chuckle emerged from its throat. Bilbo was rather surprised, since when the Dragon opened its mouth he had expected to be incinerated instead of inspiring laughter.

 

Gathering his courage, and to buy time to think of a plan (did he mistake hearing the pounding of dwarven boots?) Bilbo spoke.

 

“O your great and terrible majesty! I am the clue-finder, the web-cutter, the stinging fly. I am Ringwinner and Luckwearer; and I am Barrel-rider. May I know the name of one so magnificent as you, and how you came to be within the Arkenstone?”

 

The Dragon’s pupil contracted to a thin line of black in a sea of rubies, and all of a sudden, Bilbo got the idea he shouldn’t have asked that as the Dragon roared its answer.

 

“Ripped, snatched, robbed, torn away! My name, mine, given to me, precious and beloved, and HE TOOK IT! He cut it away from me while I screamed, and cauterized my bleeding mind with one in his filthy language! He bid me be **Markhubaglul**!”

 

Its tail lashed through the air and Bilbo winced as it made the sharp crack of a whip, but at least it didn’t set him ablaze for asking about what was obviously a sensitive issue. He would take what he could get when dealing with Dragons.

 

“A thousand apologies Master of the Skies, I meant no disrespect. I had no idea my question would anger you so.”

 

“Apology accepted _Mithredath_ , for you freed me. You may dare much with me, and I shall not lift claw against you. Excepting betrayal of course. And it is Mistress of the Skies, not Master.”

 

Bilbo laughed nervously, as flickers of flame slide through its, or rather, _her_ maw when she spoke of betrayal. His laughter died as the thuds of boots became audible. Her pupil narrowed again at the sound, and Bilbo spoke quickly to distract her, fearing that the same mad rage would take her again and she would not hold back her flames this time.

 

“Forgive me for my rudeness, but, _are_ you female? I’m afraid I cannot tell, as the only Dragon I’ve met is Smaug, and he was a he.”

 

Her pupil dilated again at his question and Bilbo had to hold a sigh of relief back.

 

“Yes, I am female. _Ahaz_ left me my gender, if little else.”

 

Bilbo nodded gravely, and then scrunched his nose as it occurred to him she had not answered his earlier question as to how a Dragon half again as large as Smaug came to be within the Arkenstone. And what on Arda was _Mithredath_ , _Ahaz_ , and **Markhubaglul**?

 

Bilbo was about to ask his questions when the nameless Dragon spoke.

 

“I tire of speaking to you like this. Come _Mithredath_ , we shall move to the flat ground that lies before these ramparts. I’m sure you have many questions for me, as I do for you.”

 

With that she reared up onto her hind legs, allowing Bilbo to see what appeared to be a collar of mithril locked onto her neck. Bilbo tried to distract himself from his terror by asking himself “ _Smaug didn’t have forepaws, so why does she?_ ” Her wings then unfolded from their place on her back and spread out for balance, their dark webbing casting the ramparts into shade. Bilbo was much too preoccupied with remaining conscious( _flying furnace!)_ to move before a forepaw gently grasped him.

 

Dwarven curses and battle cries in Khuzdul filed the air as she began to take him, his Company charging out from their hiding places to save him. She ignored them. Until Kili shot an arrow that only missed her great ruby eye due to a lucky last moment shift in position, causing her to snarl furiously.

 

Despite themselves, the sound made them pause in fear, their eyes locked on the flickers of flame escaping from between clenched fangs. Bilbo could not help but stare in horrified fascination as well. The memories of Smaug chasing him and trying his hardest to burn him from existence, the efforts to kill the Wyrm before it left the Mountain, Thorin holding a sword at him, Laketown ablaze… He came out of the fugue when she stepped away from the ramparts with him still clutched in her talons, her awkward attempt at bipedal movement shuddering through her paw.

 

Despite her difficulty with walking, she made no motion to drop him, and after five great, careful steps, she finally lowered herself back to the ground. She was on three legs, wings extended and tail still for maximum stability, before she brought him back to the ground, carefully setting him back on his hairy feet. It reminded him of how Beorn would pick him up and carry him around, and how it felt to be on the Eagle’s back. But much more dangerous and unnerving enough to make the hair on his feet rise.

 

Bilbo was _very happy_ to be back on the ground.

 

With that, she unceremoniously laid down, wings folding away and tail curling behind him while her head was still held high. Now, able to see her properly, he could behold her face in its immense entirety. Two red eyes looking down from above, horns curving upwards like a proud crown (he thought her horns were similar to a type of deer some traveling Men had described to his mother once; an Impala he if remembered correctly.) It looked like her face was as immobile as Smaug’s was, but he thought he could gather the gist of what her ‘facial expressions’ were from her tone, pupils, and head’s positioning. She looked amused at his gawking, but Bilbo felt justified in doing so.

 

She was made more beautifully than Smaug was, her head and body closer to what he had envisioned a Dragon to be, and she was half again as large as Smaug. He looked away from her face to behold the rest of her, and was aggrieved to notice she did not have a scale conveniently missing over a vital area. Her black scales were in perfect order, thick and strong looking, sheathing her in impenetrable armor. Bilbo wanted to wilt, but he knew he couldn’t while those red eyes watched him. He needed to stall, to buy time for Thorin, Gandalf, or somebody to come up with a plan.

 

She seemed happy enough to talk with him as long as he remained polite and deferential, and Thorin’s recent deterioration had refreshed his skills in such matters. And he was a Hobbit. He could make conversation until Arda was unmade.

 

“You said you met Smaug _Mithredath_. Tell me, did he have four proper legs, or did he have wing-arms and hind legs?”

 

Well that was unexpected.

 

“No my lady, he did not have four proper legs. May I inquire as to why you wished to know?”

 

She began chuckling again, and he could feel the ground beneath his feet vibrate with her amusement.

 

“Then you have _not_ met a Dragon before me _Mithredath_. Smaug claimed to be something he was not. He was a Wyvern, not a Dragon. Dragons are built like I am, with four legs and two wings. Wyverns are built as Smaug was, with a pair of wings doubling as crude forepaws and hind legs.”

 

Bilbo was surprised at this new piece of information, unsure of how to take it, but he stubbornly remained fixed on the fact she still hadn’t answered his questions.

 

“My lady, why do you call me _Mithredath_? What does it mean?”

 

She crossed her forepaws, like a mortal lady would cross her legs, and looked at him with an expression that made Bilbo uneasy. He could not tell what emotion she looked at him with, but it was in her eyes so intensely he wished he dared to put on his ring to escape it.

 

“ _Mithredath_ means to break the law Ringbearer.” She lowered her head, bringing it so close her breath warmed him, and he could touch her snout if he wished. Her eyes burned like fire.

 

“I name you so because you should not have been able to free me, to hear my voice, to discern I was no mere shining stone. It is a name given out of what love and kindness I have left, despite its meaning. For of all the beings who have held me, you are the one who let me out of my prison. Even if I did push you a little.”

 

Bilbo felt horror claw at his heart as he understood what lit her eyes with a mad unholy light. This creature, this Dragon, loved him for what he did, for freeing her from her prison. She loved him as a dragon loves something; fiercely, jealously, possessively, with no reservation and no end.

 

He had met Smaug. Smaug’s heart may have beat for his gold, but he had shown Bilbo what a Dragon would do when they loved. Bilbo knew what it meant for a draconic heart to be so moved by something.

 

_The pines were roaring on the height,_

_The wind was moaning in the night._

_The fire was red, it flaming spread;_

_The trees like torches blazed with light._

 

Oh yes. Bilbo knew very well what a Dragon’s love could do.

 

* * *

 

* **Markhubaglul** : Going by Dwarrow Scholar's dictionary, it translates to "Shield of Sacrifice." If that's incorrect, please let me know so I may correct it.


	4. Searing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is stressed out from trying to keep calm under pressure. The Dragon isn't helping matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's not the only one that's easy to derail.

 

After his epiphany regarding what lay within the Dragon’s eyes, Bilbo had to fight again to refrain from fainting. If he fainted, he had no idea what she might do. Bilbo’s imagination helpfully supplied images of what would likely happen; pictures of his Company being roasted alive, of Mirkwood turning into a vast swath of ash, and other such things danced before his eyes.

 

He nervously cleared his throat, nose scrunching and feet shuffling, eyes darting about for some topic that didn’t involve the Dragon continuing to discuss his importance to her. The mithril’s shine caught his eye and his curiosity. It didn’t look like any jewelry he had seen before, and if it was actually made of mithril…Well. Suffice to say, she was wearing enough metal on her neck to buy at least ten Erebors full of treasure.

 

“Is that mithril?”

 

A snarl ripped its way from her throat like malevolent thunder, showing Bilbo that the growl she had given Kili was closer to a disgusted snort than a proper display of anger.

 

“It is, _Mithredath_.”

 

Well, she hadn’t spat fire at him yet, and she had said he could dare much with her…

 

“May I ask, my lady, what it is?”

 

Her tail began lashing on the ground agitatedly, but Bilbo judged it far enough away for safety. He had to keep pressing, to keep her focused on him.

 

“Of all the things you could ask _Mithredath_. If I tell you, will you answer my questions as I have answered yours?”

 

There was weight to her words. She was saying something, meaning something he couldn’t understand. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he should agree, unsure what she might do if he couldn’t answer her or if she didn’t like his answer. But he had to consider what she might do if he refused to agree.

 

She had sworn she would not lift a claw against him so long as he did not betray her. That didn’t transfer that protection to any of his friends, or anyone else. She could lay waste to everything near the Lonely Mountain, leave nothing green or living, slay his friends and everyone else, and still keep her word to him, so long as he wasn’t harmed by her. And that was only if she did not simply take his refusal as a betrayal in of itself.

 

What other choice did he have, but to agree and hope none of those possibilities came to pass?

 

Resigned to the inevitable, Bilbo spoke with all the seriousness he possessed. He understood very well that far more than his own life rested on his shoulders.

 

“My lady, should you explain and answer my question, I shall do my best to answer yours. I must beg your pardon however. I am but a humble creature for all my titles, and I am not the wisest being on Arda. I may not know the answers to your questions, and whatever answers I _do_ possess may not be to your liking.”

 

Her expression seemed to soften, pupils dilating a little, and she raised her head high again.

 

“Dear _Mithredath_ , so long as you are truthful and answer as best you can, I shall not be angry with you, no matter what you tell me.”

 

Bilbo couldn’t help but heave a sigh of relief.

 

“What you see on my neck is _Sheba_ , my oath, forced from me by _Ahaz_. He wrought it as a collar, a sign of my enslavement, and made it from his most precious metal. I cannot remove it, nor can anyone else, save _Ahaz_ and perhaps _Shoa_. On it, _Ahaz_ wrote in his filthy tongue the epithets he had given me since my ensnarement. Come _Mithredath_ , approach so that you may see for yourself.”

 

Bilbo stepped forwards with hidden trepidation, moving closer, until he stood only a few feet away from her breast. Even knowing that she considered this to be a slave’s collar – and he thought he saw where a chain was supposed to be attached – Bilbo could not help but stare at it in awe. _Ahaz_ , whoever he was, wrought it with exquisite beauty, shaped it with great love and care. It was intricate and detailed, on a level beyond any Bilbo had ever seen. Despite its magnificent beauty, Bilbo was struck by how some of the patterns seemed to be familiar, like a more complex and masterful representation of some patterns he had seen on items in Smaug’s Hoard.

 

The collar had a definite dwarrow-flavoring, but eventually his eyes settled on what appeared to be some formal form of Khuzdul. But that wasn’t doing the script service, for it wasn’t the Khuzdul he had seen on the Company’s contracts, or engraved into Erebor’s walls. It would be like comparing modern Sindarin to the most formal form of Quenya.

 

“ _Ahaz_ labored long over this, for it was to have power over me, to bind me to his purposes. On the inside, next to my skin, he enumerated my geases, what he had taken, what he had refused, what he had given, and what he promised me. He hoped to hide what he had done by doing so, and make my collar seem like jewelry, like something a Dragon would proudly and happily wear. _Ahaz_ remade it when he changed my purpose, for he had come to understand a collar chokes no matter how glorious that collar is. That is when he added the epithets.

 

First was **Nassel** , safety of all safeties, the one that surrounds where my chain should go. **Markhelbaglul** is embossed over the center area, to identify me. The others he had circle my neck, like another collar, another brand, one atop the mithril. I shall list them in counterclockwise order, for that is how they are meant to be read. **Magabbarȗna** , she who continues to answer. **Makhaththazȗna** , she who continues to endure. **Marrarȗna** , she who continues to horrify. **Marakhkhashȗna** , she who continues to scream.

 

 **Muhafrȗna** , she who is betrayed, and **Makalfȗna** : she who is cursed. Those last two are not on my collar, though they are the epithets they should have been carved in pride of place _Mithredath_.”

 

Bilbo couldn’t speak through the tightness of his throat. Her voice expressed her agony well, and his throat closed in sympathy as she struggled to tell him his answer. But right now, he needed to delay her questions as much as he could. Which, unfortunately, meant he was going to have to prod that wound like the bravest, most fool-hardy Took to ever walk. He could tell it would be as time-consuming as dealing with Lobelia, but to be honest, he needed _s_ _omething_ to call her by, something that wasn’t one of those names or titles, or her species.

 

“My lady, I know now my earlier question must have brought you great pain, but I must speak of it again. These are not your titles and that is not your name; I refuse to call you by any of them, now that you’ve revealed who gave them to you. But my lady, I ask, may you not give yourself a name, as you named me _Mithredath_? While it may not be your true name, it could serve you as well as _Mithredath_ serves me.”

 

She stilled at his words, pupils narrowing, wings shuffling on her back. The Dragon remained silent for some time, making Bilbo nervous enough to start wringing his hands like they were dirty dishtowels. Before his nerve shattered and he started to babble frantic apologies, she brought her head back down to his level, mind made up, with great ruby eyes shining too intensely again.

 

Bilbo would deny it later, but he squeaked quite shrilly when she began to gently nuzzle him with her great head.

 

“Thank you for your kind consideration _Mithredath_. Shall I start listing names now? I am quite fond of _Akeldama_ , for it means “field of blood.”

 

Bilbo squawked at the idea.

 

“Nonono! Absolutely not! That is not a name that should be your first consideration! Now, Datura, Wisteria, Lantana, or even Gloriosa, all are excellent, appropriate names! Names any Hobbit lass would bear with great pride!”

 

She chuckled.

 

“Are those not the names of _poisonous_ flowers?”

 

Bilbo sputtered.

 

“I’ll have you know my mother was named Belladonna! Poisonous flowers provide the best names, I assure you my lady.”

 

“If you like deadly things, then, how about _Meremoth_? It means myrrh of death, and myrrh is a sap-based resin.”

 

Bilbo felt a flush come to his cheeks at her little joke as he pouted. Just what he needed, a Dragon with a sense of humor.

 

* * *

 


End file.
